


We'll Always Have Paris

by GlynnisIsta8



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-05-29 21:57:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6395422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlynnisIsta8/pseuds/GlynnisIsta8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the events of Thor2 and before Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Darcy Lewis vacations in Paris and is caught up in a terrorist attack.  Her first impression of the SHIELD STRIKE team and its leader is not a good one.  It looks like Captain America is little more than a jack-booted thug… who may be following her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eiffel Tower, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to McGregorsWench for Beta help. :)

Darcy Lewis took small steps out of the elevator, torn between interest in the odd angle of its ascent and a distinct desire to _moo_ in response to how tightly the passengers packed into it.  Sweat ran down her neck under her heavy coat, even as she shivered against the winds that whipped around the open area.  She kept shuffling through queues to the next elevator, resisting the temptation to run straight to the new glass floor panels at the center of the first deck.  The tour book on her Kindle indicated that it was best to go all the way up first and then meander back down, rather than lingering low and possibly missing out on the main view from the top of the Tower. 

So, she soldiered her way there and searched out the champagne bar.  It wasn’t that she deluded herself that they’d serve the finest of champagne to tourists, more that she wanted to be able to SAY she’d toasted Paris atop its Tower.  The wind gusted more, whipping loose hairs around her face so that they joined the wind-tears blinding her. Her fingers shivered so much that she gulped her second taste to try to prevent spilling the drink, and then nearly tipped out the rest as a coughing fit hit. One-handed hair and face repair was the pits. She did the best she could. Despite the absurd, meshed, cage-like fence all around the top deck, she managed a few cute selfies and sent one to Jane immediately.  A young couple asked her to photograph them.  They were kind of cute, despite the excessive amount of tongue on display in their ‘ _oh-so-romantic_ ’ pose, sucking each other’s faces off.

An elderly couple came out to the deck for a few seconds and immediately retreated inside again.  Darcy found a spot that felt less wind-swept and looked out over the spokes of the neatly laid-out city.  **Paris.**   The unique flavor of the _City of Lights_ seeped into her. Her brain quieted as she absorbed the sights, thoughts skimming over stories from classic books and things friends had mentioned.  She consciously straightened her posture and inhaled bracing, cold air.  She counted to five and then slowly exhaled.

So, Darcy’s head was clear when the first explosion rocked the Eiffel Tower. 

People screamed in every language.  Sobs and cries of panic were universally understood. _**Fuck.**_   How high up was she?  Would it matter?  If the Tower fell… She was fatally high, beyond a doubt.  Her stomach clenched with fear and her gloved hands grasped frigid railing in a death grip while she scanned the area and tried to maintain calm.  The idea of being stuffed in the passenger elevator with sixty or more panicked people filled her with too much anxiety.

She saw a sign. ** _“passage interdit”_** It hung on a gate to maintenance stairs.

Darcy didn’t give a shit if going down those steps was **_forbidden_**.

Need to escape danger overrode general rules.  Her legs didn’t feel like her own as she turned, pushed through the gate, and began the harrowing descent.  She did her dead-level best to focus on individual steps, the pattern on each step, the cold metal hand rail snagging her gloves. 

Details. Breathing. Not panicking.

The slowly-decreasing distance to the ground loomed eternal, regardless.  Winds buffeted the stairs without mercy.  Swaying sensations pulled her stomach tighter, especially when the rhythm shifted in odd ways.  Another explosion rocked the Tower from somewhere below.  It was followed by a resonant ‘ _CLANG’_ that sounded almost otherworldly, as if Thor’s Mew Mew had collided with something.  Then another explosion, more distant and muffled sounded. She wished for Thor hopelessly.  He and Jane were holed up in a cottage in the British countryside.

A distant flash of dark blue moved fast, with super-human agility that further disoriented her.  If she couldn’t trust her eyes or her perceptions, how could she survive?  No man could move like that.  She focused on the steps beneath her feet until an odd noise caught her attention again.

Darcy shifted her gaze, following a line of black vehicles as they closed on the Tower with no regard for traffic patterns or pedestrian expectations.  The name ‘ _SHIELD_ ’ screeched through her mind, and she wasn’t sure whether to cheer or quail with fear.  She paused in her descent and shoved her phone into her shirt and bra, laying it sideways under her arm.  Flapping her arm to test that it was secure, she started moving again.  She left the top few buttons of her overcoat undone.  While her face was freezing, her body warmed from exertion.  Her knees protested as she pushed herself down another flight.  Breaths came quickly as she fought to control the pace of her descent and the tautness of her fears.

The stairs shook anew as a group of young men bounded down behind her, panicking as they went.  They pushed past with hardly a glance her way.  Darcy’s lips trembled with annoyance and panic as she clung to the handrail and stilled until the vibration and frightening sway of their stampeding subsided.  A bereft moan broke the air.  Darcy stared up into hysterical eyes set in a blanched white face.  She turned away and started to descend again, but glanced back as a young man sank to a step and sobbed. Unable to abandon him, she winced and forced herself back.

Pulling her knit cap down firmly, Darcy groaned as she climbed to him.  “Hey… It’ll be okay.  It’s just steps.  You’ve gone down steps before.  Pretend you’re inside your house or something.”  She glanced at the ground and hid a shudder as the wind gusted again.

He turned his head to the side and vomited, whimpering.

Darcy winced.  “Yuck!  Okay.  Now that you’re past that… Um... Ew. You got some on the step.  Wouldn’t you rather get away from that mess?”  His eyes narrowed with confusion as he looked at her and shook his head.  Darcy pulled at his hand impatiently.  “Allons-y. Come on. Let’s go.”  He gestured wildly to the ground far below them.  With a sigh of annoyance, Darcy twisted her lips and finally offered.  “Je vais montrer la voie. Ferme tes yeux.”  She HOPED all that meant ‘ _I’ll lead the way. Close your eyes._ ’  Her French was rusty, but it felt close enough.  She pointed at herself. “Darcy.”

The young man let out a strangled sound and croaked, “Luc.”  His gaze dropped to her cleavage, a confirmation to her that he was French (and straight or bi).  He closed his eyes for a long slice of time, and then opened them wide and shook his head to indicate that he was too afraid to do as she’d suggested.

She laughed at the absurdity of the moment, whirled and pointed to her jean-clad ass.  “Okay, Luc. Ferme pas. Regards mon cul et marche.”  She pulled on his hand and he stood, legs trembling badly.  She held her breath for his first few steps and set a reasonable pace, squeezing his hand to offer reassurance every so often.  Quickly, she became accustomed to his fearful whining.  Jane whined when forced away from her work.  Darcy was almost impervious to whining.  Despite the toll the long trek down was taking on her ability to breathe, she sang between gasps to distract them both. 

They paused at the second level of the Tower, Luc clinging to a larger beam and shaking all over.  As her breathing settled, Darcy gave him a hug and snorted with skepticism when he began babbling that she was his angel.  They both stilled as the sharp crack of gunfire rent the air.  Darcy wasn’t sure where safety lay, but the openness of the shaded second level made her uneasy.  She barked, “allons-y.”  Luc wheezed and followed, resuming his shaking gait and grasping her hand as tightly as before.  His palm was sweaty against her glove.

Darcy saw flashes of gunfire on a different stairwell.  She glimpsed men in tactical gear fighting there, too, and thanked any and every one of the powers-that-be that she wasn’t on _that_ side of the Tower now.  Her phone chafed wetly against her skin as she sweated inside her coat.

Luc shrieked as a stray bullet struck metal near them.  Darcy jerked his hand as she tried to move faster.  Her gaze darted all around, trying desperately to see if the path ahead remained safe or not. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a darkly-dressed figure swing impossibly from one beam to another, causing her heart to race with fear again.  Who moved like that?

The more she pulled, the slower Luc seemed to move.  She started singing softly to him again, ‘ _Don’t Stop Believin’_ ’ by Journey this time.  She thought she heard someone else (a passable male falsetto) singing the words nearby and looked around for them as she and Luc neared the first level platform.  Luc’s sound of new terror caught her attention a millisecond before she felt the muzzle of a gun touch her temple.

She froze in place.

_to be continued…_


	2. Eiffel Tower, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy doesn't like jack-booted thugs.

As the metal of the gun muzzle pressed into her temple, Darcy raised both hands in a hopeless gesture of surrender.

When Death had walked near her before, Darcy kept her eyes open, even as she was rolling around on a Greenwich road waiting for a Dark Elf to shoot her.  But this time Death hovered too close, with an acrid, smoky smell and the cool press of metal against her skin. Oblivion seemed just a millisecond away. She closed her eyes tightly as her previous words to Luc echoed in her head. ‘ _Ferme les yeux_.’  She wished she’d lived more and found love, had her own family. She worried over how loud and painful and messy her ending would be, spared a thought for Jane, and vainly wished that someone would chase Death away. A flash of curiosity cut through her as she heard an odd thud and felt the gun shift before it discharged.  As the shot exploded a strut near her head, she spun away instinctively, gasping and holding her ears.

Luc whimpered and sobbed, shaking like a leaf as he pressed against her again and shifted them both away from the fallen body. Darcy opened her eyes as heavy footfalls stomped and vibrated close.  Her head ached.  Sounds seemed distant. She stared at black, military grade boots ( _jack-booted…_ ).  Muscled legs, a wickedly-honed body, and a harsh countenance completed the picture ( _…thug_ ). 

The hard man growled, “You’re damned lucky.  That should have been impossible… even for _him_.  I underestimate his capabilities sometimes.  Need to work on that.”  She read most of those words from his lips, yet unable to hear, too stunned to comprehend his meaning.

Darcy’s ears rang painfully as she peered up into dark, dangerous eyes… utterly lacking in compassion.  Anyone who _didn_ _’t_ see cruelty in that face was kidding themselves.  The man wore black tac gear with bandoliers crossed over his muscled torso.  He turned his head and sneered into a small mic, “just artsy student types here, a Frenchy and a girl who looks American.  No threat.  You’re right, Cap. They’re nothing, nobodies. Southwest stairs clear now. Rumlow out.” 

The first words Darcy heard clearly indicated that someone named ‘ _Cap_ ’ thought she and Luc were _nothing_ and _nobodies_.  Her knee-jerk response was an internalized ‘ _well, fuck him, then_.’

Rumlow flashed a badge too quickly for them to read and gestured abruptly with his thumb.  “Move it over there, peacenik girly. We’re sorting civilians away from the others.”  Darcy fingered the peace emblem on her necklace self-consciously as Rumlow’s gaze lingered on her and chilled her through.  She instinctively felt that he savored pain, especially the pain of people he dominated. Her heart still hammered from her near miss. Her fear ratcheted up again in response to Rumlow as he loomed over them.

Luc gagged fearfully and put a hand over his mouth. The jack-booted thug growled at Luc.  “Non! You puke on me and I’ll shove it back down your throat, monsieur artist-etudiant.”  His accent desecrated the French words in that way that left Darcy vaguely ashamed to be American.  

A glance at Luc showed her that he understood the thug’s tone clearly, if not his words. Angered, Darcy stood firm and gestured to the stairs.  “We just want to get out of here. What right do you have to tell us where to go?”  Her hands trembled, but that was the only outward manifestation of her fear.

_Jack-Booted Thug’s_ eyes narrowed as he evaluated them both.  He looked around carefully before twisting Luc’s arm back, a show of force that left no doubt that he could and would break the arm.  Luc choked again and let out a breathless sob. “ ** _Captain’s orders_** give me **all** the rights. Don’t give me any lip, little peacenik, or pussy boy here’ll pay.”  He shoved Darcy so that she stumbled in the direction he’d indicated, brows going up as he got a better look at her from head to toe.  She put her hand in her pocket, on her Taser.  The dark man leaned closer to Luc and spoke in a harsh whisper.  All Darcy heard was ‘ _viol collectif_ ’.  Her vision swam as she wondered which of them the man was threatening with gang rape, or if it was a threat for both of them.  She began to wonder if the bombers were really the bad guys or not.  This thug seemed plenty bad. Her fingers tightened on her weapon.

Luc urged her in the direction the man had indicated.  Terrified civilians huddled at the center of the platform by newly-installed glass walls over glass-panel flooring that allowed viewers to see the ground nearly three hundred meters below them clearly.  Luc stumbled as he forced himself onto the panels, his slight body between Darcy and the man who’d caught them.  Luc trembled worse than ever, his obvious fear of heights nearly overcoming him.  His face went gray and he moaned.

Darcy whispered, “ferme tes yeux. Tu es... en sécurité.”  She felt his head nodding close by her own.  Luc reeked from vomit and sweat, but Darcy stayed still by him.  She fought the urge to close her own eyes and wondered if she’d just lied to Luc, or if they really were safe.

One young woman turned to another, tone matter-of-fact.  “If this were a movie or TV show, one of us would’ve taken a stray bullet by now.”  The other girl let out a noise that was half sob, half laugh as she nodded agreement.

An older lady muttered wearily.  “I’m glad we’re safe from whatever that was, but my feet are killing me.  I hope they let us leave soon.”  Several people nodded agreement while struggling to catch their breath and regain their equilibrium.

Darcy turned.  “Who are these charmers?”  The woman shrugged, made a face, and rubbed her hands over her arms.

A half dozen thugs milled around, guns at the ready.  Darcy noticed a familiar arm patch on one jacket sleeve and gasped, “Holy shit! It _is_ SHIELD.”  She bit her lip as NDA’s came to mind, along with the professional and unflappable expression of research-and-iPod-stealing Agent Coulson.  The older lady looked confused.

Rumlow, the scary _Jack-Booted Thug_ with the bandoliers, turned and began to stalk her way, gaze focused on her again.  Luc whimpered.  Darcy, heart pounding so hard she feared everyone could hear it, held her ground.  She shifted the Taser in her hand, ready.

A voice cut through the cold air as footfalls sounded loudly.  “Rumlow!  Everybody okay here?”

Rumlow turned on his heel with a crisp motion, his back to the civilians and his posture changing.  “Yes, Captain!  We’ve had the usual displays of stupid bravado from trouble-making peaceniks, but this level is secured according to your specs. Nice one with the elevator.  Good catch. And don’t even get me started on that throw…”  He gestured Darcy’s way and gave her a dark, warning look.  She held his gaze, refusing to be cowed by either him or his Captain, whoever that might be. 

She missed the frown on the Captain’s face as he noticed Rumlow’s glare to her.  When Rumlow again faced forward, Darcy turned her angry gaze to his commanding officer.  She jutted her chin out stubbornly, refusing to be intimidated as he entered her field of vision.

The heavily-muscled Captain wore a dark blue tactical suit with a cowl covering the upper part of his face.  He stepped closer to the civilians, alert gaze darting all around.  His gaze touched on Darcy briefly before he turned back to his thugs. “Good work, men.”  As he turned to check the perimeter one more time, the tell-tale shield on his back drew people’s attention. 

Luc gasped the name ‘ _Captain America_.’ 

One of the thugs patted the Captain’s shoulder admiringly and laughed with him.  The thugs were obviously his comrades in arms.

Darcy’s heart contracted with disappointment.  **_These guys_** were _Captain America’s_  SHIELD goons?  **_He_** was the one ordering people to be intimidated and roughed up? ‘ _Captain’s orders…_ ’

She tended to think that people who fought at Thor’s side like the Avengers had were good and kind.  She’d idealized Captain America after learning about him in History classes, even nursed a crush on him and dreamed of meeting him since the Battle of New York.  For him to turn out to be no more than a SHIELD thug? It hurt.  Wryly, she reckoned to herself that thousands of men and women had fought at Thor’s side, so the odds were that more than a few were jerks.  Captain America looked even sexier in person than on TV. So, her disappointment had layers, from lost idealism to thwarted lust.  She felt stupid for assuming him heroic.

She pulled off her glasses and cleaned them, using the busy work to calm herself.  After she shoved the glasses back on her face, she noticed wine goblets in the nearby souvenir shop window.  Wine sounded good about now.  She could drink a toast to her successful dash down the maintenance steps of the Eiffel Tower, one to whoever got off a lucky shot or something that saved her life, and one to freedom from her now-defunct, school-girl crush on Captain America… leader of jack-booted thugs. **UGH**.

A woman dropped lightly to her feet from a beam above them and cleared her throat.  Darcy startled as she recognized the Black Widow (also from seeing her on TV). The Captain let out a wry chuckle, focusing his attention fully on the cat-suited woman.  “And, _good job_ to you, too.  Doesn’t that go without saying?”  Other thugs laughed as Black Widow looked around sharply and then smiled inscrutably at the Captain.

As the Captain and the Black Widow fell into quiet conversation, Rumlow elbowed the thug next to him. “So, who do you think Widow’ll set him up with from THIS crowd?  Ever since you asked if she’d fuck Cap she hasn’t shut up about who he should ask out next.”

Darcy didn’t understand his laugh.  She just hated him.

The other thug, a surly man with slicked, dark hair, looked around.  “Eh.  Cap could have _any_ woman here, as usual.  I hear he’s sticking around after.”  He pointed as the Captain moved to speak with a willowy blonde.  “I’d do that one for him, orders or not.  Damn! She looks ready to sink to her knees and suck him off in gratitude, doesn’t she? Every time…”

Rumlow rolled his shoulders and laughed harshly.  “Yeah… anybody he wants.  Sick bastard.”  He shook his head in disbelief.  He and the other thug laughed together.

Darcy frowned.  The thought of _Captain America_ hooking up with groupies after every mission cheapened his actions; cast him in an even less flattering light. She’d assumed he helped people because he had a sense of nobility, like Thor. Instead, it seemed like it was just his **_job_** … and that he took advantage of traumatized people.  The blonde put a slip of paper into the Captain’s hand and pressed herself against him, simpering with obvious lust.  Darcy couldn’t see his face, but hated to imagine the answering leer that might be there.  She shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.  The glass flooring beneath her feet showed the area beneath the Tower clear of all foot traffic.  She realized that was probably an unusual view for a tourist to see.

Rumlow nodded.  “Yeah… Cap loose in Paris.  I read the briefing.  Pierce prefers to shorten Cap’s leash and keep him busy so he doesn’t cause too much trouble.  You know how Cap is… You can always count on him to fuck up our long game with his ridiculous concerns.”

_Slick Thug_ barked an ugly laugh.  “Why does Pierce put up with his crap?  I’d handle him like the Asset, if I had the authority.”

Rumlow laughed and shushed his friend carefully.  “Don’t think it hasn’t been debated.  Every time Captain America goes off reservation and takes out good people like he did last week in Prague, it takes weeks, sometimes years, to put things back the way we want them and cover up his nonsense.  The guy is a one-man wrecking crew, dangerous to everything the Heads try to achieve.”  He looked around and noticed Darcy’s attention and her expression of disgust.  A dark grin twisted his face and he poked his friend in a way that indicated they needed to take care with what they said.

The SHIELD thugs divided the civilians into small groups and interviewed everyone about what they had seen and heard.  Darcy was disgusted that she had to speak more with Rumlow.  She kept her answers short and to the point, and watched the way his expression shifted as he looked at info (obviously about her) on his data screen and then looked her over again. She noticed that the Captain interrogated Luc rather quickly, but spent the most time talking to the blonde who so obviously desired him. 

Darcy just wanted to get away from SHIELD, away from thugs, away from the all-too-human Captain, and put this day behind her.

_to be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, McGregorsWench for beta help. 
> 
> I tweaked more after that and was messed with some by MS Word's contractions nonsense. Then, I struggled with final edit/posting this chapter while Hubs worked on a toy for little guy that required use of a nail gun in the house (about 10,000 nail shots so noisy they had little guy crying, the cats hiding in the playroom, and older boy fleeing to the the great outdoors). So, while any errors ARE mine, I blame hubs for bringing the whole family down with that nonsense (not the toy project, the decision to do it in the house). :O
> 
> Let me know if you spot a mistake so I can correct it. 'K? :) ;)


	3. Eiffel Tower, Pt. 3, That evening…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two different people with different takes on the day. Darcy unwinds too much after a scary day. Steve's relaxed and pleased with his accomplishments... until he's not.

Steve was amused. 

Tony urged him to stay at the swankiest hotel in Paris, but he’d refused.  He wasn’t comfortable in a sterile, ultra-luxe suite.  He wanted to be able to tell that he was in France instead of the US, so he requested a nice little boutique hotel.  Joining their conversation over speakerphone, Pepper assured him that she understood his preference and knew of a place that would be perfect.  Apparently her people had satisfied a similar request recently.  So, here he was.  The hotel was quaint and charming, authentic.  The Tromeille family had run it for decades.

But, the shower was a tight fit for his post-serum body.  He was small for the first twenty-some years of his life, but took up more space in the world now. The French were… economical in their use of space, always had been.  Even so, this visit to France seemed luxuriant in comparison to his brief time in the _City of Lights_ during the war.  He’d stayed with the Commandos in barracks south of Paris.  Steve pulled his thoughts back to present day, not wanting to dwell on grief.

He guessed from the wall supports that his chamber had once been two rooms.  The bathroom was advertised as ‘ _luxuriant and spa-like_ ’, but the shower/bath was narrow and the shower head was at chest level on him.  Still, the view of the Eiffel Tower was really something.  Beautiful. He stood by the window and dried his hair with one towel, another tied around his waist. As the sun set in a riot of dimming colors, lights came on and the Tower twinkled with a magical golden glow that seemed especially celebratory on this night.  There was still a chill in the air.  He closed the window.

He savored satisfaction that the Tower still stood.  The STRIKE team had followed up on an outstanding investigation by French Police and used new tech to foil the terrorists as they began their attack.  Hundreds of innocent lives were saved.  He guessed that he had saved at least sixty five just in one falling elevator that he managed to brace with a heavy beam and prevent from crashing.  Not a minute later he’d climbed back up the Tower, cheerily singing along with a breathless woman descending steps… who he was just in time to save from a gunman by knocking the man’s shoulder at precisely the right angle.  It could have gone so differently, given the narrow spaces the shield breached on its way. Steve never bragged, but he was especially proud of that shield throw. He hadn’t been able to help smiling as other STRIKE team members congratulated him on his prowess.

Once he dressed, he made his way downstairs.  He preferred running down the dark, echoing stairwell to riding in the claustrophobic and minuscule elevator. The hotel’s private courtyard had an outside heater beside one glass table near the bar entrance and windows.  A single candle gave enough light for him to see.  The night air was cool, but perfect for Steve as he wound down from the day.  He ran warmer than most people, wanted peace and quiet, and didn’t want to deal with any more star-struck fans.  A woman at the Eiffel Tower had been so obvious in her attentions to him that he was still embarrassed. His face burned at the thought of things she’d offered.  Her eyewitness testimony was less valuable than promised, too, especially since she continually interrupted it to embellish her propositions.  If she’d spoken any English, he would have asked one of the other team members to take her statement.  Natasha refused to help him.  She laughed and told him that he needed to learn to interact better with women, including women like that one.

He opened his bags from the Fran Prix grocer and poured himself a glass of wine.  Baguettes, paté, smoked fish, saucisson, raspberries, cheeses, cornichons, and assorted desserts satisfied his stomach and his palate.  A demanding meow startled him just before a cat wearing a pink ribbon around its neck rubbed against his leg.  He chuckled as she devoured a sliver of fish and settled down by his feet, purring loudly. 

He toasted the cat.  “You’re good company, Cherie.  Bon soir.”

***

Inside her hotel’s bar (a place booked for her as part of Stark Industries’ attempts to woo Jane to come ‘ _science_ ’ with Tony Stark), Darcy savored drink after drink until she was well on her way to being tipsy… and finally, blurry and numbed.  Still anxious from events of the day, she didn’t feel like eating.  Madame Tromeille was a motherly sort, however, and brought tempting morsels to Darcy after hearing she’d been at the Tower during the attack.  Darcy ate some, but also shared bites with an insistent feline. The lady’s spoiled cat ate everything it could coax from every patron, no exception. 

Darcy watched, amused, as the cat approached a man in the hotel courtyard.  Blurrily, Darcy assessed him.  Damn.  He was pretty, at least what she could see in dim light.  He must also be pretty damned manly, sitting out in the cold with his wine and… picnic food?  Darcy’s lips curled into a smile as she made up stories in her head about ‘ _manly man_ ’, as she christened him.  One moment, she fancied him Mme. Tromeille’s son… the next, she decided he was Mme.’s much-younger lover… then, she decided he was one of Thor’s Asgardian buddies, like Fandral.  That spiraled into fantasies that had her worrying her lower lip with her teeth and shifting lustily where she sat. Oh, alcohol! Whoever he was, he was sure as hell built.  The cat’s recommendation went a long way, too.  Cats KNOW good people.

Darcy had no doubt that a perceptive kitty like Miel Tromeille would hiss, scratch, and run from the SHIELD thugs at the Eiffel Tower.  Darcy took another large gulp of wine as she remembered Rumlow and his hard eyes.  She knew, from watching news reports, that she ought to fear and revile the people who tried to bring the Tower down more than the people who stopped them. She also knew that the world viewed the SHIELD thugs’ leader, Captain America, as a hero.  Sobbing elevator passengers talked about the sudden plunge their car had taken and the life-saving jolt as the Captain came to their rescue.  Darcy flinched and drank more wine as she remembered the press of a gun to her head. She also thought back to the first time she’d met SHIELD agents and watched helplessly as they stole Jane’s dazzling life’s work and all their personal electronics and journals. She supposed she also felt more spooked by the presence of SHIELD since this trip was the first time she'd been away from Thor's protection in a long time.

Dizzy, she wondered if the Captain was still accepting _payment_ from the willowy blonde, or if he’d moved on to another conquest already.  Miel returned from her visit with the mystery man in the courtyard and meowed, startling Darcy as she jumped into her lap and started eating from her plate.  The cat’s eyes turned up to peer into Darcy’s. 

Darcy frowned and slurred, “don’t judge me. I had a shit day.”  Oh.  She was swaying.  It was like the breezes from the top of the Eiffel Tower were buffeting her where she sat.

She heard voices and felt herself moving.  Floating. Strong arms. Safe. That was the last she remembered.

***

“Capitaine?”

Steve looked up as the hotel owner approached.  He started to stand, but obeyed as she gestured for him to keep his seat.  The lady sat by him asked his help, keeping her voice low.  She told him that a sweet girl who’d been frightened during the attack on the Eiffel Tower needed help getting to her room safely.  “Elle a noyé ses craintes.”

Steve smiled ruefully at the notion that one could _drown fears_ and agreed to help.  He followed Madame Tromeille into the bar and to a woman seated by the window, alone but for the cat he’d fed moments before.  The cat looked up at them balefully from its spot by the woman’s plate of cheese and fruit as Madame Tromeille hissed, “Miel!”

Steve put the woman’s coat over his arm and hung her purse from his shoulder as the hotel owner leaned down to speak to her.  As the dark-haired woman mumbled nonsense, Steve recognized her coat from earlier at the Eiffel Tower.  Shame crept over him.  While he’d basked in pride at his good shield aim, a woman had feared for her life.  Madame Tromeille grinned up at him ruefully.  “Elle est beurré.”

Steve’s smile was tight.  The girl WAS plastered.  It made him think about the others who’d suffered anxiously in fear of their lives.  The STRIKE team came up lacking in the area of calming people.  He remembered a young Frenchman he’d interviewed after the attack.  The boy couldn’t stop shaking with terror and babbling about an angel of mercy who led him down the maintenance steps and calmed his fears.  This woman was that angel of mercy.  She swayed in her seat and he caught her and lifted her easily into his arms, bridal style.

She snuggled against his shoulder and groaned, “ _manly man_ is as cut as Thor. Oh, _manly man_...” 

He raised a brow at that and reflexively tightened his hold on her; wanting to give her some of the comfort she’d given to another person earlier, wanting to soothe her fears.  He whispered to her, “you’re safe.” She made a soft noise in the back of her throat, barely parted her lush lips, and rubbed her cheek against him.

Though he didn't know her, a frisson of... something... passed through him. She was beautiful.  When he'd laid eyes on her earlier she looked fiery with... anger? Spirited.

Madame Tromeille led him to the elevator, key ring in hand.  As the elevator made its way up, she smoothed her hair and looked at herself in the mirrored wall’s reflection.  Steve tried not to jostle the young woman too much as he walked.  A peace emblem on her necklace gleamed against her creamy skin.  Her ample curves pressed against him delightfully.  

Inside her room, he laid her on the bed and removed her purple sneakers.  He set them neatly by a chair, under the writing desk that held her laptop. Madame Tromeille hung the lady’s coat in the closet and set her purse on the dresser.  Steve went into the bathroom and filled a glass with water, then set it on the bedside table.  He gently removed her eyeglasses and set them next to the glass of water.  She rolled onto her side, curled in on herself, and moaned softly, “where’d ya go, _manly man_?”  Then, she quieted to sleep.

***

Steve had a hard time getting to sleep that night.  He wondered how the people who’d been attacked were doing, tried to remember individual faces, and reminded himself that the people they helped were the most important part of any mission.

_to be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, always, to mcgregorswench for beta help and encouragement. Mistakes added after she edited are all mine. I'm enjoying some Yann Tiersen music while I write this. Excellent vibe. :) I made the image set on tumblr for additional inspiration.


	4. Museé de l’Armeé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's day starts earlier than Darcy's. Misunderstandings continue all around. Miel is awesome. Visiting Paris' Army Museum leaves Steve reflective and lonely.

 

Steve opened his eyes at 5:30 am.  Some habits were hard to break, especially as he had no pleasant incentive for changing his morning schedule. Unlike many people on vacation, he woke alone. Muted traffic noise sounded from nearby roads… more trucks out than cars so far, at least in the area around the hotel.  He rolled out of bed and threw his curtains open. Night was just beginning to soften from inky black to dusky charcoal.  Below, Madame Tromeille walked at a brisk clip across the hotel courtyard, moving towards the breakfast room.  Her cat trotted on her heels with a confident gait that brought a smile to Steve’s face.  He showered and stretched before dressing for a run.  While he healed better than most, he didn’t set out to do deliberate damage to his body.  His pain threshold was high, but he didn’t savor pain.  That was one of the most restful parts of down-time like this.  He allowed both his body and mind pain-free moments, something of a luxury to him since he’d joined Team STRIKE.

His running pace was slower than his norm, to avoid drawing attention, and he ran further.  A route that circled the city enabled him to both remember Paris as it once was, and to plan to see sights he’d missed during his previous visit.  He admired the amazing, detailed carvings and lines on most buildings, a style that was unique to Europe. Diesel fumes were a trade-off for the constant visual beauty.  Intricate architectural details, as well as artful flower and plant placements, were a visual feast with a unique aesthetic.  Paris settled Steve in a way cities in the United States couldn’t.  There were changes here, but Paris had not truly changed.  It was as full of history and progress, of sanctity and bawdiness, as ever.  As Paris was so much older than American cities, the changes of time were less jarring and obvious.  In the grand scheme of its longevity, Steve had taken a mere nap, while in the relatively young United States he missed a lifetime.

Shopkeepers were busy preparing for the day, of course. The heady scent of baked goods wafted from every pâtisserie and boulangerie that Steve passed.  He even felt the heat of an oven or two along his way. While preparing for his trip to Paris, Steve read a book about the renaissance of the French baguette.  Quality had dropped markedly after the war and only rebounded in the past thirty or so years, giving him an odd sense of kinship with the bread. He stopped in one boulangerie that still used original brick ovens and had them wrap several baguettes for him to carry back to the hotel. 

As he crossed the street, Steve made an unconscious security sweep of the area.  One occupied car up the block caught his attention.  He slowed his pace and looked at the man inside the vehicle. Steve’s manner was direct and intimidating. He meant to let the agent know that he’d been seen and his presence was not appreciated.  It wasn’t the first time Steve suspected SHIELD of tailing him, and he guessed it wouldn’t be the last.

He turned and entered the lobby to retrieve his key and dash up the stair well.  He chose not to dwell on his impulse to detour to a different hallway and leave a baguette leaning against a guest room door. The beauty from the previous evening was likely still sleeping within.  He just did it. With a self-conscious shrug, he justified to himself that the bread might help settle her stomach when she woke. 

While he urged his mind to other topics, she hovered at the edge of his thoughts. Ferocity, sweetness, and soft, lush curves… It was a combination he couldn’t forget. He didn’t want to forget her, either.

***

The Hydra agent in the car outside Madame Tromeille’s hotel drove away at a careful pace, favoring his bandaged hand and cursing his luck again.  The tracker Rumlow tagged Foster’s assistant with worked fine. But after returning from the Eiffel Tower (and the watchful gaze of local law enforcement) the girl stayed in her hotel. She didn’t walk outside where she’d be easier for him to grab.  Then, when he tried to lead his drunken target out the hotel bar’s side entrance under cover of darkness, a damned cat sliced his hand to shreds.  The beast hissed and fussed so much that bar patrons questioned what was happening.  Then, the old lady who’d hovered over the girl all night returned… with Captain America in tow.  Now, Rogers had spotted him. 

He’d failed his mission and feared the punishment to come. Hydra had no tolerance for bad luck or incompetence.

Beads of sweat pouring down his back, he reported to Agent Rumlow that he’d been spotted and needed to be replaced.  Rumlow initiated protocols and cut their communication. Frowning anxiously, he watched as all information about Dr. Foster’s assistant, including video of the Commander carrying the girl out of the bar, disappeared from his data pad. 

The agent turned his car towards Gare de Lyon.  It didn’t matter where the next train went.  He would be on it, and he would run until they found and killed him.

***

Steve devoured his bread, showered and dressed, and then ate a more varied meal and drank several cups of coffee in the hotel breakfast room.  The skies shifted and darkened as a storm blew in and rain fell steadily.  The cat startled him with an affectionate ‘ _mrowl_ ’ of greeting.  Pressing her head into his hand, she arched her back and began to purr. He rubbed behind her ears gently and slipped her a bit of cheese.  Miel worked her feline way around the breakfast room as he sipped café au lait and listened to the rain outside.  In the thick of the downpour, the streets gleamed like glass and reflected lights from windows lining them.

Madame offered him an umbrella as he left his key with her at the front desk.  Demurring, he shrugged and offered a rueful grin in response to her thoroughly unimpressed demeanor.  Her kind desire to look after others, despite their own hardheadedness, struck a chord with him.  She started to say something about him taking ill and pursed her lips as she realized her error.  He couldn’t help his slight grin.  Freedom from illness was one of the best parts of the deal he made.

As he stepped outside the hotel, he paused and scanned the streets thoroughly.  There was no sign of the agent he’d spotted before.

It was a short walk to the Army Museum, Museé de l’Armeé.  The gilded dome was beautiful both inside and out, ornate beyond belief. Inside, the idolatrous tributes to Napoleon Bonaparte, complete with an elaborate altar, irritated Steve and made him uneasy.  People’s admiration of military figures ballooning out of control was NOT one of Steve’s favorite things. So, he soon moved on.

He spent more time in the next building, engrossed. The ancient armaments rooms fascinated Steve, in part because they provided a perspective of centuries through the tools of war, something he viewed differently than most people did.  Shields from ages past especially caught his attention.  They were made from an endless assortment of materials and in every shape and configuration. Some were practical and others were only decorative. Ornate carvings and additions drew his eye as he considered the effect such nonsense would have on the weight and balance of a shield.  None of those could be thrown like his.  Many were adorned with spikes in the center, cutting edges, or other lethal offensive features. 

Less-ornate and more useful shields merited more respect from Steve. His thoughts flashed to Howard Stark’s smile and brash manner as he extolled bells and whistles proposed for Steve’s improved kit once Steve proved himself worthy of more than his USO costume and a prop shield. His old prop shield, the one he’d carried to Azzano when he went after Bucky and other prisoners from the 107th, was in a new museum display in Washington, DC now- a paper with his war bonds sales lines still affixed to the back.

Struck by clarity and disquiet, Steve stilled.  _Artifact_. He lived _separate_ from people, as though he was behind glass as part of a museum collection. He was no different than his prop shield and the other artifacts of the life he’d lost.  His aloneness in this new time was beyond anything he’d ever imagined.  There were millions more people around him than before, and it only deepened his loneliness. The limits of his imagination needed further consideration all the time.  Bucky’s face flashed through his mind, too, but Steve shoved that old guilt aside. Steve shook off melancholy, shoved his hands in his pockets, and toured on.

A crucifix dagger with a profane Madonna icon spoke eloquently of the way Man twisted faith into brutality throughout the ages.  Suits of armor brought young Stark to mind.  Steve took pictures of a few, to share with Tony later. The armaments’ purpose wasn’t always as artistic as their presentation here. Most were well made, but crafted to kill (another way they were like Steve since the serum). Steve admired and appreciated artistry for a while longer. He moved through the collections more quickly after he began to compare himself to museum relics, though. 

He wanted to shake this mood.  There must be an art museum or gallery nearby...  He pulled out his phone and checked, nodding with satisfaction as he picked his next destination and moved to exit the Army museum.

_\- to be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for leaving comments (author oxygen). :) I'm in final rewrites of Chapter 5 and will post it within a day or two.
> 
> Thanks, McGregorsWench, for beta reading. Any errors are mine (tho I may blame one or two on my kitty, Bailey, who likes to pace back and forth in front of my monitor while I check formatting in the posting screen). ;)


	5. Museé Rodin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy wakes with a hangover and learns that Captain America carried her to her room the previous night. At Museé Rodin, both Darcy and Steve are prompted by passionate art to consider their needs and wishes. But misunderstandings continue...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, McGregorsWench, for beta help. Errors are mine from after she reviewed.
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this one. I got stuck as I checked my trajectory/plan for the rest of the story. I like to have at LEAST a start on the next chapter before I post. :)

Darcy groaned, grateful as she realized she was in her own room, her mouth as dry as a desert wasteland. Save for vague impressions, she had no idea how she’d gotten there.  Dim light filtered in through the split between the drapes.  Rain fell... good and peaceful weather for sleeping in.  At least she was only sleeping away a bad weather day of her vacation. 

She rolled over to look at the clock on her bedside table. It was after 10:00 a.m. Her glasses and… praise the gods… water sat there.  Scrambling up on her elbow, she sipped the water.  _Ugh_.  She closed her eyes against the pain. Her head ached and her stomach complained about the abuse she’d heaped on it the previous night.  After she finished the water, she lay back and struggled to remember.  Her heart beat faster for some reason she couldn’t pinpoint. She remembered voices and… Miel… hissing? She recalled Madame Tromeille’s voice, the cat’s fondness for her cheese plate, and… Uneasily, she shifted as she remembered another man’s voice, too.  It was almost familiar.  She moved carefully and drank more water as her shower water warmed.  Opening the door to look for her newspaper, she found the paper and a baguette in a paper package leaning against the door jamb.  She tore off a piece of the crusty bread and chewed carefully through a moan.  It was the most delicious bread she’d ever had. She perused an article about the previous day’s terror attack and studied the pictures of Captain America, sans cowl, speaking to reporters in his upright, non-thuggish, and earnest _public_ manner.  She chewed more bread to settle the uneasy feeling in her stomach and set the newspaper aside.

_Ugh._   She hoped she didn’t disgrace herself publicly the previous night.  Madame must pity her intensely to bring her hangover-help bread.  It was obviously from a different bakery than usual… better than the bread the hotel served, much better.  She looked at the packaging, hoping vainly for an indication of its origin.  A lyric ran through her mind… ‘ _brown paper packages, tied up with string_ …” Now, that song was stuck in her head. _Ugh_. 

She took painkillers with more water and managed to shower and dress, albeit slowly.  She felt better, almost ready to face people who’d witnessed her drowning her sorrows.

When she reached the front desk, Madame was on the phone.  Miel, the kitty, opened one eye to peek at Darcy from her resting place on the counter.  The cat yawned, jaws wide and one paw extending fully, and then she settled again.  Darcy petted the kitty, enjoying the feeling of its soothing purr. When the phone conversation was done, Darcy managed an awkward grin and apologized to Madame Tromeille.  Concerned and blushing, Darcy asked if Madame supported her all the way to her room. 

The answer stunned her.  She nodded understanding and felt relief as the phone rang again.  She didn’t want to explain her current emotions. Darcy crossed the small lobby and took a seat, putting her head in her hands and trying not to panic.

_Captain America had been in her room_.  Her heart raced as quickly as a rabbit’s.

Darcy pulled out her phone, grateful it was still in her coat.  It was protected with multiple pass codes.  Jane still hadn’t replied to her selfies from the top of the Eiffel Tower OR her reassurances that she’d survived the terrorist attack.  Darcy knew that Jane could go days without checking her phone, and did that a lot when she took time off from work for Thor’s sake.  Still, Darcy sent a message.  ‘ _NEED Thor’s help.  SHIELD ID’d me after Eiffel Tower. I don’t know if my Taser will work on Capt. America. He’s a SHIELD thug, maybe at my hotel.  Stop sex and send Thor ASAP_.’ She texted slower than usual. Her hands shook.  She checked her other coat pocket, relieved to find her Taser there.  The new device was a gift from Stark International, another goodie that was part of their efforts to lure Jane’s brain into Stark’s clutches.  With cautious glances around the busy lobby, Darcy felt around in her purse until she found the tech detector she and Jane had made together after meeting SHIELD for the first time in New Mexico.  She breathed a sigh of relief on finding it.  It had remained idle since SHIELD withdrew funding from Jane’s work the previous year. Paling with anxiety, she held it against her phone.  There was no alarm signal light.

As calmly as she could, Darcy went back to her room.  The door closed behind her and she pressed her back against its cool solidity and looked around to see if anything had been moved. Shaking her head, she stepped further in.  Silently, she berated her foolishness.  Getting blindly drunk when SHIELD knew where she was? She ran the small tech-detecting device over her body, holding the scan button.  In the mirror, Darcy saw the red light come on as she passed the device over the back of her coat.  She broke out in a sweat and removed the coat, laying it on the bed. 

She looked around her again, and then moved into the bathroom. Wincing with regret, she broke the shower head.  She swore to herself that she would leave extra money to make up for it when she checked out. Then, she called the front desk, reported the problem, and asked to be moved to a new room.  She ran the detector over everything, starting with her backpack, wondering where else the Captain had managed to hide surveillance equipment.  The one in her coat was all she found.  She threw her scanned belongings into her backpack and then searched for and found the bug hidden on the outside of the coat collar.  By the time the bellman arrived, she’d hidden the offensive tech inside a piece of baguette wrapper in the waste can.  It would be on its way to Paris’ landfill by the next day.

Once in her new room, Darcy took another shower to loosen fear-tight muscles... and fretted.  Likely, SHIELD wanted to know where Jane was and what she was working on now.  Darcy would NOT lead them to Jane.  Or Thor… Thor, her ‘ _Air Mew Mew pilot’_ , didn’t expect to meet her in the field where he’d left her for another four days (unless, against all odds, Jane got her text messages sooner). If she went to the police, they would only pretend SHIELD didn’t exist.  She could leave; let SHIELD scare her away from Paris.  Or, she could continue touring Paris, but stick to populated areas and turn her Stark Taser on high and hope for the best.  While the Captain’s presence made her uneasy and the device on her coat offended her, she didn’t feel as though she was in eminent danger of more than being spied on.  While the agents’ thuggish-ness was off the charts under the Captain’s command (as compared to their quieter menace when Agent Coulson was giving the orders), it was still just menace. If he’d wanted to hurt her, she’d given him ample opportunity the previous night.  All he did was to place a tracker on her coat, as far as she could tell. At least here she had nice, paid-for accommodations.  Her new view, from her own little balcony, was even better.  She could see the Eiffel Tower beautifully from this window.  That view relaxed her, despite her harrowing descent of the previous day.  At least the Tower was still standing. 

Next, she spent some time on her makeup, both because she needed extra on a hangover day and to further settle her nerves with a mundane task.  She swore to herself that she wouldn’t drink more than one glass of wine at a time for the rest of her stay.  All bets were off when she was safe with Jane and Thor again, but for now… **NO**.  She needed to be more careful.  Big-brother SHIELD was watching.  She blew a kiss to her reflection.

Hangover blessedly easing, Darcy was famished.  She locked her door as a beautiful blonde woman exited the room next to hers, looking like she didn’t want to be seen any more than Darcy did.  Unconsciously noting that the blonde’s door key looked odd, Darcy chuckled internally.  The blonde carried herself like she was doing a _walk of shame_ , but Darcy wasn’t one to judge.

Darcy borrowed an umbrella from the front desk as she left them her key, per the usual protocol.  Then, she stopped at a nearby café and had two cups of of café au lait and a Croque Madame.  Hangover-cure food calmed the uneasy rolling in her stomach.  At a market, she bought a large bottle of water to sip from to help her re-hydrate.  Then, she set off for the Rodin Museum.  It was a smaller collection, but one she was dying to visit.  Sculpture was her favorite art. There was a break in the rain as she neared the museum.  Immediately after closing her umbrella, she donned sunglasses. _Ugh, hangovers_.

She stopped in the front garden beneath the statue of ‘ _The Thinker_ ’ and took a picture of the famed bronze statue, framing it with the ornate golden dome of the Army Museum visible behind it.  Darcy went through the usual security checks, stored her coat and purse behind the desk, and paid for an audio tour player.  She winced as the sound started too loud for her dull headache, but lowered the volume and found her language preferences.  It was funny sometimes to switch between English and French to see just how much they simplified the English explanations.  Whoever did the audio guides for Paris museums obviously had a low opinion of the intelligence of English-only speakers.  It was hilarious.

Upstairs, Darcy lingered over the Camille Claudel pieces for a long time.  ‘ _The Age of Maturity_ ’ saddened her as she considered both the inevitability of aging and the possibility that Claudel, eventually institutionalized, was abandoned by Rodin for a more mature woman.  Darcy stood transfixed before a smaller piece called ‘ _The Waltz_ ’.  She’d only seen pictures of it previously, and those didn’t do its inherent energy justice.  It was as though Claudel had managed to sculpt emotion. Darcy had to stop herself from touching it. 

More than a desire to touch the sculpture, Darcy drowned in sudden awareness of her own longings… for passion, for companionship, for love.  She was a capable, independent woman, but sometimes she wished to be held in strong arms like the female dancer in the sculpture.  She wanted to bend to another’s sensual passions. She missed having a lover, longed for one that would please her like Thor did Jane. Thor was like a brother to Darcy, but being around his and Jane’s happiness so much over the past several months (mostly while single, because her interest in Ian fizzled quickly) left Darcy aware of her own unfulfilled needs.  She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed heavily. 

Loneliness sucked.

***

The walk from the Army Museum to the Rodin was short and pleasant, once the rain let up.  Steve walked the gardens around the museum house first, worried that the weather would turn again.  He was eager to tour inside, too.  He preferred paintings, in general, but admired Rodin’s sculpting prowess.  There was something primal in the man’s works.

When he reached the room featuring works by Rodin’s pupil and one-time mistress, Steve stopped in his tracks.

‘Angel girl’ ( _God!  He needed to get her name…_ ) stood in front of a fireplace, intently studying a small bronze piece on a display stand.  Her arms were crossed, almost as though she was hugging herself. Emotions played across her expressive face like flames flickering and lighting up darkness.  He allowed himself the luxury of admiring her vibrant beauty, remembering the feel of her lush softness in his arms and against his body.  While he saw beautiful women almost every day, few affected him this way.  He stifled a rueful chuckle as he realized that he’d not been as physically close to anyone else outside a fight since he’d woken up in the 21st century.  Natasha was right.  He needed to date.

He moved closer to Rodin’s marble statue, ‘ _The Kiss_ ’, and studied it while the commentary droned in his ears.  Rodin portrayed more interest in sexuality than many artists of his time.  The woman in the sculpture was an active participant, not a passive object. 

Steve’s thoughts shifted pleasantly.  In his mind’s eye, ‘Angel’ was in his arms again, sweet lips moving eagerly under his while she uttered happy gasps and moans.  His hand at her hip shifted, grasping at her and pulling her delightful body tight against his.  Heat blossomed as his blood warmed to the fantasy.  He had to stop before he embarrassed himself.

But, the fantasy forced him to admit how attracted he was to her.  And that, along with his admiration for her kindness to the boy at the Eiffel Tower and her fierce manner while interacting with as intimidating a man as Brock Rumlow, caused Steve to consider his desires further.

He wanted to get to know this woman.  He wanted to spend time with her.  His anxiety rose as he considered how to approach her.  Bucky’s ghost laughed in the back of Steve’s mind as he considered what to say, how to ask her out to…

Steve noted sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. 

Her lips trembled as they formed the name, ‘ _C_.. _Captain_!’ 

He turned off his commentary player. ‘Angel’, her blue eyes wide with emotions he didn’t understand, backed away towards the next room.  Her coloring shifted, paling at first and then red as she nibbled at her lower lip.  Was she embarrassed? _Afraid?_   That made no sense to him, so he dismissed the idea. Whatever secrets her expression held though, she was NOT pleased to see him.

He decided that she must be embarrassed.

Her gaze pinned him in place as she left.

His hopes dashed to pieces and a frown of dismay tugged his lips

Steve sat on the stone bench by the windows, turned on his commentary guide again, and listened to comments for every piece in the room.  He let out an audible sigh and internally cursed the _Captain_ , not for the first time.  His shield was light, but its metaphorical weight was heavy sometimes. People’s attitudes about the hero could be extreme. When Madame Tromeille asked his assistance, he’d not thought to ask her to keep his help anonymous. ‘Angel’ must be embarrassed that an icon like _Captain America_ had seen her drunk.  That was all he could think of that would account for her reaction to him.  She must have recognized him just now from the Eiffel Tower.  No, not _him.._.  She recognized **Cap**. 

After the room commentaries ended, he sat still for a while to let her get away from him.

_-to be continued…_


	6. Interlude- A Sunset and a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After seeing Darcy run from him at the Rodin Museum, desire is on Steve's mind.  
> 

Steve couldn’t shake loneliness and longings.

Disquiet plagued him from the moment he realized that he hardly lived anything resembling a life. He filled his time with work. Sometimes, uncertainty crept in and he wondered if he was doing good or not. He’d built some sense of camaraderie with the STRIKE team members. He pushed aside doubts about the character of his new friends.  That doubt was based in how different everything felt from his Howling Commando days. He didn’t like to dwell on the loss of his old friends.   _God!  He missed them!_  That way lay thoughts of watching Bucky fall, agony, loss and grief that was beyond his capacity to manage.  Sometimes he questioned SHIELD mission parameters, though he was beginning to think he ought to do so more forcefully and more often.  If he were honest with himself, those questions were becoming more common and more pressing for him by the day.  A reckoning was coming between him and Director Fury one of these days.

Loneliness and disquiet pulled at him even more since ‘ _Angel_ ’ backed away from him at the Rodin Museum.  He tried to put it out of his mind. He failed.  And, he failed again. Puzzling over her expression and apparent desire to be anywhere but near him, he worried at the wound. Its impact echoed through his being.

He didn’t even know the woman, but she’d taken up a space in his thoughts and inspired emotions and longings denied for too long.  He jumped onto his bed, impatient with himself.  Restless.

Desperate for distraction, he sketched.  He sketched items he’d seen in the museums, rogue flowers alive in the gardens despite the lingering traces of Winter just passing, faces he’d seen on the street, Miel the cat, food and drink, and architectural details of Paris that he so loved.  He forced his thoughts away from the beautiful woman, resisting the temptation to sketch her expressive face and the way she looked **before** she noticed him.  Regardless, her obvious longing, an emotion that he understood too well today, haunted him. It echoed in the hollow recesses of his heart.

Struggling for mental distance, he considered what it was about her that he liked and attempted to generalize it to ‘ _qualities he wished for in a partner_.’  Kindness, strength of character, fiery temperament, intelligence, humor, beauty… Aw, fuck.  ‘ _Admit the whole truth, Rogers!_ ’ (he self-chastised)  Curves for days… full, kissable lips… Just _thinking_ about her left him wanting and fantasizing about what it would be like to take her to bed.  She had energy and spark, sensual wildness. Groaning, he palmed himself through his pants and swore to think about something else. Again, he failed.

Steve sat up against the headboard and sketched the view outside his room window.  His pencil flew across the page. In his bedroom mirror, even more of the Paris skyline was visible.  The shifting light changed what he saw, especially in that mirror. Clouds filtered the sun’s rays so that the sky began to change colors with the fading of day.  Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a large set of colored pencils and began to work at capturing colors as they illuminated landmarks.  

His fascination with the light's beauty eased some of his tension, temporarily.

He stilled, disbelieving, when ‘ _Angel’s_ ’ reflection appeared in his mirror.  He closed his eyes and opened them again to dispel the vision, but she was still there. It took a few seconds for him to understand that she was on the balcony of the room next to his, standing outside.  He wondered what took her to that room instead of the one he’d carried her to the previous night. Basking in the warmth of the still-present sun, she shed her jacket and blouse so that she wore only a black, strapless, figure-hugging top.  His mouth went dry and he bit his want-burned lip. His body was at immediate attention. As her arms stretched high above her head, her top seemed to defy gravity. Lust burned him as he drank in the sight of her. He shifted where he sat, uncomfortably aware of his needy and wanting response. A stab of jealousy cut as he worried that she was in the room next to his for a liaison.  He stilled, even holding his breath as he listened for a voice next door and let his gaze roam her creamy-looking, exposed skin.   _Succulent_. He licked his lips and bit the inside of his cheek.  He burned with desire.

There was no one in the next room other than the woman he wanted. _Thank God._ He couldn't bear the thought of hearing her with someone else.

As the sun moved lower along the horizon, its beams lent a golden patina to everything they touched. The woman’s skin glowed in the light of the sunset so beautifully that he couldn’t resist drawing her.  It served to occupy his thoughts and turn them from a fiery and lustful path, somewhat. His hands trembled as the strokes of his pencil traced her lips and tantalizing curves.  The rounded shoulder closest to him bore a whimsical tattoo of butterflies and stars clustered together.  It was whimsical, perfect to him. He knew he’d always remember the way she looked as clearly as he saw her now.  If he could capture the lines of her beauty, he could enhance the piece later.

He was realistic enough to concede that her current appearance would have a place in his dreams and fantasies for months to come. _Beautiful._

For a while, she simply admired the view. Her lips curled to the half smile that she wore most of the time.  She disappeared from view for a long moment. Then, she stepped back into his sight and made a phone call.  He could hear her voice and wondered who ‘ _Erik_ ’ was as she chatted and teased.  Her sweet, full laughter took his breath away.  He paused his pencil strokes and stared at her, longing for her more every second.

_Joy. Passion. Warmth. Caring. Spark. Life. Laughter._

She spoke kindly, with concern for her friend, but no longing.  Steve was ridiculously relieved. He censured himself and squirmed.  Whether he was ninety-five or twenty-nine, he ought to be too old for a schoolboy crush of this magnitude. One quality he ought to add to his list of traits he wanted in a woman came to mind.  Things would be easier **if she liked him** and wanted to be near him, too.

Closing his eyes, he recalled the last time he’d had a hopeless crush.  It was one of Bucky’s girls, of course.  Popular Bucky, unaware of Steve’s feelings, brought her home for a night of lovemaking only a man like Bucky could give her. It still hurt to remember the sounds echoing through the tissue-thin walls. The next morning at breakfast time she’d even ruffled his hair and called him ‘ _little_   _Stevie_ ’, driving home the point that she saw him as a boy.

When he opened his eyes again, ‘ _Angel_ ’ was gone.  He didn’t hear anything through the hotel wall.  Disgusted and dissatisfied with himself, he left his room.  He walked through Paris' streets for hours, alone with his thoughts.  

***

It was the darkest part of the night.

_The light shifted, dappled sunlight striking butterflies and stars and calling to him. As his lips caressed each line of the tattoo and his tongue darted out to taste her skin, she moaned with desires and longings. She was a force of nature, pulling and tugging at him, winding him more taut with every caress. His fingers trailed up the silken curves from her hips to her ample breasts, then shifted past her wanting shivers to pluck and tease cries from her.  She ground her firm and rounded ass against his aching desire and moaned again, her cries harmonizing with his own sounds of pleasure._

_Heat. Light. Want._

_He kissed each star and butterfly wing on her shoulder while she begged for more. Finally, he rolled against her heat in his soft sheets and they joined, whole and happy.  She writhed with him, gasping and begging for him to never stop, speaking words of affection.  He thrust in again and again._

_Slick. Tight. Ecstasy._

Steve woke with a hoarse cry, on the edge and wanting her so much that he could taste it.

 

_...to be continued..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, McGregorsWench, for beta help. Mistakes are mine. My apologies for letting the CACW Press Tour, CACW movie, and other real life and fandom concerns derail me for so long. 
> 
> Note: I started this story a long time before HydraCap was a nasty thing in the comics. While Darcy mistakenly believes Steve to be one of the bad guys in this story, he's not.


	7. Sacre Coeur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touring Sacre Coeur causes Steve to reflect on his past and thinking towards his future. Darcy's kindness and sense of fun make an impression. Darcy thinks it's a shame that Captain America is with the bad guys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: Darcy's wrong. Captain America is a good man.
> 
> Thank you, McGregorsWench, for beta help. Thank you, UsedKarma, for fixing Steve's French. As we discussed, Jacques & Gabe would have taught him to speak fluently, not with the classroom vibe I can get away with for Darcy. ;)
> 
>  

The primary difficulties Steve faced while touring Sacre-Cœur were his size and patience. Fitting his bulk into stone-cooled, narrow spaces (the stairs, in particular, were a tight fit for **any** two people passing each other, worse when one had shoulders as broad as his), was a near-constant challenge. Tourists’ lack of common decency also tried his patience.  Hearing people refer to a building completed in 1914 and dedicated in 1919 as ' _ancient_ ' irritated him on a personal level. More generally, people ignored signs about not taking pictures and about staying out of seats reserved for prayer and worship. Some talked loudly and without respect or reverence for the worship space.  It was jarring and detracted from the atmosphere. Steve didn’t pretend to be the most devout person, but he’d been brought up to respect holy grounds and people who shepherded congregations.

He found a quiet corner and took a deep breath, setting those concerns aside.

A sense of bittersweet peace flowed through Steve as he lit candles and prayed. The first candle was for his Ma.  Gratitude for all she was and did threatened to overwhelm him.  During the bitter days of the Great Depression she healed and comforted sick people at the hospital, and then came home to do the same for him. Widowed and without protection, she stood up for all that was right, even when it cost her.  The echo of her example was what Erskine saw in him, yet another gift she’d given. Most of all, she gave him unshakable reassurance that he was whole-heartedly **loved** in a time when weak and sickly people were widely viewed as disposable burdens.  His prayers for her were filled with boundless love and respect.  And… he just missed her. He missed her smile and the touch of her hand, the safe warmth of her hugs.

Next, he lit a candle for Bucky and let the wound of his guilt pulse painfully in time with the thudding of his heart. Bucky was like his protective older brother, cajoling him from despair, laughing at his earnest awkwardness, and looking out for his dumb ass when he provoked the biggest bullies in Brooklyn. And when it was Steve’s turn to keep Bucky safe, he failed.  Memories- a flash of weapons fire wresting the shield from his grip and exploding a hurtling train car... another blast that Bucky inexpertly deflected with the shield... Steve closed his eyes and held his breath until the jagged stab of grief dulled to its usual, constant twinge.  Bucky's fall to oblivion replayed in Steve's nightmares in perfectly merciless detail, ad nauseum. Thus, he did all he could to spare himself from dwelling on it while awake.

His prayers turned to his first best girl, Peggy.  His passion had once been all for her. His biggest regret when he crashed the _Valkyrie_ was losing a life with Peggy. He lit a candle now to honor her through her illness and her ebbing days.  Passion had dulled to loving friendship, but what _‘could have been’_ still hurt and always would. He dreaded losing the meager scraps Fate had allowed, chances for him to glimpse her beautiful spirit between bouts of age-related illness and for them to remember loss again and again.

He lit one for fallen friends and enemies. Finally, he prayed for himself and lit a candle for all he lost while unconscious for sixty-seven years... and for what he might have going forward. The candle flames flickered against the constant air currents that permeated the church.  The breeze generated by a passing tour group nearly extinguished some.  But, the flames prevailed and burned on.  For a few lost moments he let go of his thoughts and tensions and just stared into the lights. Peace, elusive peace. He’d known little of it.

He remained bowed in prayer as determination rocked him. He still lived.  These few days of time and space to think… felt like an awakening. It was time to act like a living being, not just as a hero but also as a man. He could reach out and make friends.  He could love and feel passion again.  Passion lit him up every time he saw the woman he thought of as ‘ _Angel_ ’. He puzzled over his desires and his current circumstance.  They seemed at odds, and he didn’t know why.

Outside the sanctuary, Steve blinked against the brighter light of the morning while beggars inevitably clustered around the exiting tourists.  A few beggars shied away from Steve because of his imposing appearance.  While he didn’t relish their attention, it bothered him to some extent to frighten anyone.  He never wanted to be a bully or be confused for one. Most people avoided looking into the eyes of the beggars, seeming unwilling to admit the less fortunate had souls.  A few people shared their wealth (and some of those had more stolen than they intended to give).  Some simply said ‘ _no_ ’ and stepped around the inconvenience.  A few offered insults rather than the oft requested ‘ _pite_ ’. 

An older male beggar with skin the color of milky café au lait spoke.  “Pas un voleur...”  His eyes flashed with dignity. 

Steve offered the man money and a nod of respect.  He also gave cash to a woman who knelt by the door, saying nothing at all.  Steve walked several feet to the side of Sacre Coeur and leaned against a concrete wall.  His spot was shaded, less thick with people, and served as a good vantage point.  His hair shifted in the warm breeze.  He pushed it back and let out a comfortable sigh. He pulled out a sketch pad and went to work capturing what he’d seen and the bustle of activity around him now. His pencil flew across the page.  He sketched the flow of arches he’d admired inside, small details that came together to create byzantine magnificence.  Quickly, following his thoughts, he changed subjects and recorded the city view from the dome atop the basilica, including the sweeping lines of the rooftop.

A daring gypsy boy pretending to focus on ball play ‘bumped’ against Steve.  Without looking up from his work, Steve spoke.  “Ne me cherche pas, mon garçon. Va t'en.Laisse moi tranquille.” ( _Don’t try me, boy.  Go.  Leave me alone_.) At the clear ring of authority in Steve’s voice, the boy froze for an instant and then ran.

When he reached a stopping point, Steve looked at the scene below him, in front of the basilica. Up and down the many steps, people gathered to bask in the unusual brightness of the Spring day.  Some sat wearily and sipped drinks.  Others laughed and joked. One couple remained oblivious of everyone else, kissing and touching so passionately that Steve blushed and shifted his gaze away from them, lest he fall into his own dream fantasies again. There were families, couples, and lone elders with expressions that made Steve wonder how the past sixty-seven years had passed for them. 

Then, he saw her.  ‘ _Angel_.’  

At this point, he’d be more surprised if he went somewhere in Paris and did NOT see her.  They must have similar touring itineraries.  His had been provided by Stark’s travel assistant, undoubtedly a top-notch pro.  He’d noticed that places he might have visited on different days (if not for his itinerary)) were closed at times odd to him. He needed to give due compliments to Stark’s employee.  While he thought of it, he sent a text message to Pepper doing that.

He looked up from his phone and sighed.  This was his first opportunity to watch the girl dance around and interact with others since the Eiffel Tower.  She was curvy and soft, moving with ease. Sunlight brought out fiery highlights in her wavy hair. Heat of a dream from the previous night simmered within him. Rumlow described her as troublesome.  She looked nothing of the sort, just full of life and precious laughter.  Lovely. Warm. Delightful. Again, he felt a pang, an awareness of being lonely and living without much laughter.

She was like happiness, personified.

Her progress up the steep stairs was slowed by the many people who instinctively trusted her with their cameras and trip memories.  She clutched a small purse and shared money from it to several beggars, along with dazzling smiles.  It chafed his pride to think that the young woman seemed to like everyone she met, except him.  He slouched and pulled at his cap, lowering it further while staying generally still in hopes of avoiding catching her eye and dimming her pleasure in the moment.  He tried not to question himself too closely as to why he lingered while she visited the sanctuary.  Still, he stayed and sketched. He waited to see her again and wondered if he would gather the courage to speak to her, to ask her to give him a chance and to help him understand her reaction to him the previous day.  He wanted to hear her voice, wanted to get to know her, wanted to spend time close to her. Idly, he was glad that her shoulders were covered.  The sight of her butterflies and stars tattoo would likely discompose him. His dream flashed across his mind’s eye again. His body remembered it.

She exited the church and fairly skipped down the many steps (breasts bouncing in a distracting fashion that heightened the color in Steve’s cheeks). She rode the small carousel, laughing with children on the other brightly painted horses.  She helped a small girl mount a white horse with pastel markings and settle small hands on the dark reins.  He watched intently, reading her lips with ease and for once glad that he’d had so many ear infections as a child that he’d learned to read lips well even before the serum healed him and enabled him to hear fully again.

She touched a sad beggar’s cheek and complimented his eyes, treating the man with kind tenderness and compassion that left Steve aching.  Then, she smiled and called out to a boy Steve recognized from the Eiffel Tower, the one who’d referred to her as an angel when Steve interviewed him after the attack. The boy, Luc Navarreau, came near.  They embraced and kissed on both cheeks, her following his lead and giggling brightly.  The two sat together on the steps to chat.  A few of his friends joined them. Grudgingly, Steve stayed still.  Now was not the time to speak with her.

One of Luc’s friends was a natural flirt and tried to draw ‘ _Angel_ ’ in, his smiles easy and his glances to her openly admiring. Flirtatious phrases and compliments flowed from the youth.  She kept her attention fixed on Navarreau and kindly rebuffed his friend’s advances.  Steve could practically feel young Luc’s relief, even at a distance. ‘ _Angel_ ’ had an easy way about her, so that the rejected man didn’t seem offended.  More young people joined them, joking and chatting. The little group had an impromptu party on the steps, sharing bottles of wine.  Steve noticed that ‘ _Angel_ ’ nursed one cup for a long time and refused refills. She stayed busy regaling the others with stories that entertained, judging by the rapt attention they paid her.  She went out of her way to see that everyone in the little group was included, but paid the most attention to Luc, the boy who seemed to be the group runt and hanger-on. She laughed without reserve, a full-throated sound that carried and lifted Steve's mood.

Steve soaked it all in, like a man dying of thirst. 

Finally, he tore his eyes away from the kind, spirited beauty.  He glanced at his sketch pad and realized that he’d started to draw a butterfly from a memory that left his lips bereft of touch. It brought him up short.  Though he was more entranced every time he saw her, she didn’t want his kisses or even to see him at this point.  He put his sketch book away and sipped water before putting his pack on his shoulder again and walking down a side path out of the happy group’s line of sight.  He wandered through the streets to a Metro stop.  Montmartre’s brazenness didn’t seem all that different in this century, but for the hairstyles and fashions.  Stores that sold ‘ _love potions_ ’ and sex toys in the early 20th century still sold them in the 21st century.  Lascivious (by American standards) images assaulted the senses from every angle on main streets.  People of all genders propositioned him, eager for his money and such an aesthetically-pleasing body. 

He ignored them and walked towards a Metro entrance.  His thoughts and emotions had become too tangled.  He needed to settle and compose himself.  Though each step away from her felt heavier, he walked on.

***

The dark-haired man standing near the funicular shifted his sunglasses so he could get a better look at the girl.  Quick research, starting from an ID tag on one of the students’ backpacks, told him who her new ‘ _friends_ ’ were.  A few had minor offenses in Police records, but none of them were of concern to him or his employers. She got along well with them, though a few years of seniority and unique life experiences removed her from their cares to some extent. He averted his face and shifted behind another man as her gaze swept his way.  She was more alert than he’d expected.  Perhaps the surveillance wasn’t as unknown to her as reports indicated.

He mulled over his options. _Abduct or infiltrate?_  

Business had been good of late, with contracts flowing in at an expedited rate.  Something big was on the shady-side’s horizon, though its only impact on him was the increase in work. So, he had the time for either, at his discretion.  People who would never trust him with their reasons indicated that either approach had advantages, but infiltration would need to be significant in a short period of time.  Something Rumlow referred to as a game changer would begin in a week or so. The world would stand up and take notice.  She had connections, so infiltration was worthwhile.  Else, the girl would either be useful for leverage against someone unpredictable (privately, his money was on the Asgardian Avenger), be used to lure someone more important than she was, or if he failed she would go on a list as part of that mysterious game change.  

If he had any pity in his heart, he would spare a bit for her.  He didn't.  His handsome lips twitched with cold mirth as he noted the intelligent spark in her eyes, her rather lush figure, and the pert confidence apparent in her manner.  Challenge appealed to him and he was flush with enough money that he wasn’t in a hurry to begin the next job. 

 _Infiltrate,_ then, so long as it amused him. 

If that game lost its appeal he could always hand her over to Rumlow and his men from the SHIELD STRIKE team, for them to use as they pleased.  If he could get close enough to her, he would accompany her to meet her friends, then infiltrate Foster’s lab and get a look at the scientist’s work for himself. It was trouble, but would result in higher pay.  His mark was pretty.  Infiltrating Dr. Foster’s lab by this path could prove entertaining.

He sent a text message to Rumlow, sharing his intentions.  Rumlow replied, reminding him of his timeline and warning him to avoid contact with Captain America while engaging Miss Lewis.  They happened to stay at the same hotel, courtesy of their Stark connection. The man recalled Rumlow once telling him that if it came down to it and Rumlow was ordered to act against the Captain, he wouldn’t consider doing so without at least ten men on his side. 

The mercenary mentally reviewed his weapons inventory and decided to mix a special batch of virulent poison to keep handy in case he was unable to avoid the Avenger’s attention. Rumlow’s keepers seemed undecided as to how to best manage Captain America. He couldn’t help but speculate that someone who did the work of ten men might be amply rewarded.

***

Darcy bid farewell to Luc’s friends, then talked more with Luc alone.  He looked wistful.  “Tu es un ange, Darcy. Il est pas surprenant que les hommes te regardent tellement. Meme le Capitaine! Il ne peux pas t’empecher de regarder.”

Darcy stilled, uneasy.  “You saw _the Captain_ watching me at Sacré-Cœur? Captain America? Tu l’as vu a Sacré-Cœur?”

He nodded, an admiring smile touching his lips.  “Oui. Il t’admire.”

Darcy shook her head.  “He admires me? No. Oh! Nope. It’s not like that.  I mean, ce n'est pas comme ça.”  She shuddered.  “It’s way creepier than that…”  She made a face, shrugged, and changed the subject, asking about good places nearby to eat lunch.  She glanced around them carefully, looking for the Captain and wondering at his game.

She didn’t see him, but felt that something was amiss. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She had the urge to flee.

***

After lunch, Darcy made her way to the Louvre with the intent of visiting floors she skipped on her first visit, a few days prior. She’d started at the bottom floors and worked her way up until she reached sensory overload. The museum was so immense and crowded that she decided to save the upper floors until she could appreciate their content.  It would be a shame to become immune the best art in the world and view it with weary indifference.  Relatively fresh after a morning with Luc and his friends and then an outstanding roasted chicken lunch at a brasserie with Luc, she made her way to the second floor to view paintings and then work her way down.  She quickly decided that her favorite part of that section was watching aspiring artists work on their own copies of masterpieces.  Some talked to tourists while working, others focused on their work in a manner that convinced people to leave them alone. Their levels of accomplishment varied wildly, too.

For the first time, Darcy spotted Captain America without him noticing her first.  His backpack was open, art supplies spilling out on the bench next to him. Stopping so she was halfway behind a post, she wondered if he was taking an afternoon off from sneaky spy thuggery.  It surprised her to see that he was sketching, copying the lines of a painting with sure strokes and intense concentration. From what she saw, he was talented. Relaxation she hadn’t seen from him before was apparent in his posture and facial expression. He looked younger than she’d expect, given his responsibilities, and something in his face seemed almost… innocent.

A glance at her guide book revealed that the painting that had his attention was a Vermeer.  She stifled a chuckled.  It was called ' _The Astronomer_ '.  In what she could see of the Captain's sketch, he was detailing the complex forms of constellations visible on the globe in the painting.  In the back of her mind she wondered if it contained some sort of code or if he had an interest in Astronomy through the ages.

Evil guys ought to just lift weights for fun, not sketch details from masterpieces that would actually send her best friend into happy spasms.  She laughed at her own naiveté and ignored an uneasy questioning in her gut.

A baseball cap and sunglasses sat by the Captain's leg, and his hair was mussed.  It was a good look.  Objectively, if his bad connections and manner could be overlooked, he was attractive. With his sleeves rolled up like they were, she could see the play of superbly-defined muscles in his arms.  That was sexier than it ought to be.  She reprimanded herself.  She thought she’d gotten over ‘ _bad boys_ ’ years ago.

It was a shame that Captain America was a fascist thug!  He was handsome, almost too handsome… a look that intimidated and probably brought out the worst in her.  She remembered popular jocks in high school rendering her speechless with the slightest glance.  While she liked to think she’d matured some and learned to hide her insecurities, too-handsome men still flustered her. It was as if their male beauty was a weapon that she wished to evade.

She blended with a tour group to pass him, hoping to remain unseen.  It wasn’t to be, of course.  She felt the heat of his gaze the instant it touched her.  He looked like he wanted to say something.  She couldn’t imagine what. Her heartbeat raced while she walked faster and prayed that he would keep his distance.  Whatever SHIELD wanted from her, she had no interest in giving it to them.  Once again, she shuddered at the thought of the secret organization. She hadn’t liked them the first time she met them in New Mexico.  Her second impression of them was worse, much worse.

 

_-to be continued..._


End file.
